


Blood in the Cut

by CozyCryptidCorner



Series: Agony [2]
Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Demon, Exophilia, F/M, Just a touch of gore, Monster Lovers - Freeform, Monster boy needs some tender patching up, incubus, just feelings and emotions, no smut here kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 04:17:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21247349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: You don't know what to do besides patch up the incubus before he bleeds to death.***If you are reading this on any third party apps (such as unofficialao3), or on any platform besides AO3, Tumblr, and Wattpad, then you are reading stolen work. I do not give consent for my stories to be published or pulled elsewhere.***





	Blood in the Cut

**Author's Note:**

> Highly requested sequel to Merikh the Incubus' short smutty oneshot. Guess what guys: there's angst.

#

The sponge is set back into the bowl of water, turning everything pink as the blood slowly rinses out after a couple of squeezes. Merikh lays in your bed, his back facing up, eyes squeezed shut as you begin to wipe away the long gash that runs diagonally across his spine. He winces, and you pause, giving him a mere moment to recover before you begin to dab at the wound again. It’s bad, you aren’t going to sugarcoat it. Whatever happened beyond the nether resulted in his skin getting cut to ribbons in precise, intentional markings, but you don’t ask. You continue to squeeze the bloodied sponge out into the bowl, pressing it gently into a salve you had hastily thrown together, then pressing it up against the raw openings, now ignoring his soft hissing of pain.

It’s either this or infection.

The overhead clock ticks and tocks as time slips through your fingers like finely ground sand, the hours blurring together as you finish wiping away the grit and blood from what skin is left on his back, your lower lip bloody from biting down in concentration. It’s not great, but you make do with what you have, tearing apart an old sheet in long, thin strips. It takes a lot more out of you than you might readily admit to roll his towering frame up and around just to barely manage to get those makeshift bandages on in an acceptable manner, the thick oils and salves that you’ve prayed blessings over dripping onto the mattress. Sweat rolls down onto your chapped lips, the stinging just another effect to keep you awake and alert.

You tie the last bandage you intend to put on him, knowing that your work wouldn’t ever compare to an experienced doctor’s, and you come to the point that’s good enough. Nothing about this situation is ideal, no, the fact is that your healing spells leave much to be desired, how you didn’t ever plan on seeing Merikh again the last time you summoned him, or how he just decided to manifest in your bedroom, battered and bloody, wrapping his slick arms around your shoulders and whispering for help. Swallowing thickly, your chest churning with emotions that you really don’t want to deal with, you give him another once over, looking for any small cut that you might have missed, and take a shaking step back once you’re certain you’ve managed to get everything.

“My little witch,” he mumbles, almost too quietly for you to hear, “my sweet little witch.”

You nearly vomit, looking over your blood-stained arms, but you take a deep breath and close your eyes. Step one, wash your hands. Wash them clean with soap, scrubbing them raw in the hopes you can do the same to the image of his mangled flesh. You want to shower, desperately, but you don’t dare move to a place where you wouldn’t be able to see him for more than a minute at most. It’s too early to tell if he’s going to make it, and you don’t think his prospects are very good. You place a wet hand on your chest, focusing on your breathing, and head back inside your room to make sure he’s still alive in the two minutes you were gone.

He hasn’t said anything about what happened, or who would even do this to him. In fact, he’s barely whispered anything more than gibberish since he first appeared, nearly tipping over from the dizziness that comes from blood loss. You didn’t even have time to wheedle any information from him before he started teetering to the side, and that’s when you snapped into action. Trying to remain calm, you look down at his exhausted body, face mushed in the pillow, tail hanging limply off the edge of the bed. Without uncertainty, you reach over, placing your fingers on his forehead in search of fever, finding his blue flesh tinted purple, and hot to the touch.

Is that normal? You aren’t sure how hot would make a fever for a demon, especially since his skin has always been warm compared to yours. Of course, though, those were instances in which a fair amount of physical exertion was shown, so you don’t think you can pull any comparisons from there. Really, there is nothing else for you to do but sit and wait for him to tell you what he needs. So you settle down on the floor, back up against the box spring and mattress, and try to clear your head, breathing out a soft prayer. _Praise be to Lilith, mother of the damned, grant this child courage and strength to finish what is necessary…_

It couldn’t have been very long after you settle down, or perhaps it was a full eternity before Merikh begins to stir. His finger twitches, then his eyes open, slowly, uncertain, and he regards you with confusion as though he couldn’t fathom why he would be seeing you now. You can see the pain hitting him when he tries to move, his jaw tightening, his pupils shrinking, his breathing hitching. Tears begin to form in his eyes, and Jesus, Mary, and all the godless saints, your heart fucking shatters at the hurt on his face. So instead of confronting him like you so desperately wanted to moments before, you place a hand on his head and start stroking his thick black hair.

You wonder, briefly, if kissing those pouty, soft lips would be any help to the situation. Cubi, after all, suck energy clean from human bodies through physical contact, it might very well help kick his body into advanced healing mode. But you pull away, untangling your fingers from his hair, taking a step back to clear your head. What the fuck are you even thinking? After a second, you open your eyes, finding him staring up at you with a furrowed brow. Ask him. Now.

“What do you remember?”

Merikh’s brow furrows, his back rising in a deep, painful breath, but he doesn’t answer.

“Hey,” you place your hand back on his head, “I can help, but I need to know what happened.”

“A punishment.” His voice is raspy, as though he hasn’t drunk a drop of water in the past decade.

“A punishment,” you echo, looking over his razed flesh, swallowing thickly, “for what.”

“The gravest sin.”

“And what would that be?” You ask, taking in a deep breath.

“Love,” his voice is muted, ashamed as if he fears judgment from even you. As if you’d raise a hand to him in anger.

Love, though. Love? The gravest sin? Mouth pressed in a firm, thin, line, you look over his wounds, wondering who he dared to love enough to the point where others punished him for it. Probably another of his kind, one with sharp, beautiful features and a sex drive of unimaginable depths. You suppose that it might make sense for an economy based solely on sex to tamper down emotions that might make people attached to each other, but this? Mutilation? One that could easily end with his death if he ended up in the home of someone less knowledgeable in medicinal magic, and you’re not even certain he’s out of the woods yet, even under your care.

You swallow thickly, trying not to think about him in the arms of someone else. “You need to rest. Relax if you can. Your wounds need to heal before we can even think of the next steps to take.”

He reaches over, and you place your hand in his. “Whatever you think is best.”

“Right,” you say shakily, “and if… if there’s anyone you’d like to contact from the other side, I’m sure I can get the ingredients for the spell. Only once you’re better healed, of course.”

“No need,” he says softly, “there’s no one.”

You offer his hand a quick squeeze before it falls back, limp against the edge of your mattress. “You probably shouldn’t eat anything yet- if you even need to eat regular food.” A feeling of heat rises to your cheeks. “You probably should um, eat the way you normally do until you can move without ripping open those wounds again.”

“You’ll help with that though, when the time comes?”

Your entire mouth suddenly turns dry, as if someone stuffed it full of desert sand. _Of course,_ you think you say, but aren’t certain if your lips and tongue move to form any words. Your fingers reach up to the light switch, flicking it off so that he can finally rest in peace, hoping that his kind can somehow heal up faster than humans, and without the same amount of medical help.

The floor isn’t easy to sleep on, especially since your patient doesn’t do so well during the night. He whimpers, the sounds soft, and in the back of his throat, as if weakly protesting to something that only he can hear. Several times you sit up, phone flashlight on the dimmest setting, and look him over to see if anything is physically worse than when you left it last, just in case something changes from bad to disastrous. He makes it through the night, though, even with his breath rattling in his chest like death is just around the corner.

When you examine him in the morning, everything looks… better, you realize, taking the time to ever so gently peel the bandage away from his trembling body. Still bad, yes, but not nearly as life-threateningly dire as it was when he first arrived, which leaves you suspicious that his kind do, in fact, heal a little better than humans. That’s good, though, because last night had you seriously debating calling in a doctor and trying to somehow pitch it as some sort of research opportunity, though the ‘research’ would have to remain between the two of you and never get into the hands of the public.

Still… it would probably help if the two of you… copulate. You don’t like the idea, at _all,_ but it’s still there, rattling around inside your skull as you try to distract yourself from the situation by meaningless chores around your home. Sex is a sort of food for his kind, they absorb the energy like a plant absorbs sunlight via chlorophyll, so, like people, he needs his sustenance to heal better. He would also be out of your hair just a tad bit quicker, but something inside you snaps at that thought. It’s okay though, everything is utterly fucking _fine_ the way it currently is. He’s in love with someone, he might think of sex differently now that there’s a new person to consider, and you aren’t even certain how to approach the topic anyway.

You eat breakfast like a robot, shoveling whatever was easiest to make into your mouth and swallowing it down with a swig of water. There isn’t anything to do but wait for Merikh to heal, and you aren’t going to sit by your bed and watch him, unblinking, like some kind of psycho. And yet you still feel as if you are missing something big, something monumental, something you should have fucking noticed by now, but you can’t figure out what. A spell, maybe? A potion to jump-start a regeneration of sorts? You take another bite of food, chewing methodically, staring out into space. There has to be some type of strengthening potion for demons somewhere on this hellish earth, you just have to find it.

All it takes is for Merikh to whimper your name out _once,_ and you are up like a shot before you even realize it, sliding to his side like some kind of overeager puppy desperately searching for validation. “Is something wrong? Are you breathing okay? Are your bandages chafing your skin at all?”

He looks panicked, pupils narrowed to slits, mouth open as if screaming but without any air to support the sound. His skin is slick with sweat, a sign of a fever, you think, a shot of alarm running through you at the thought of having to treat an infection. The carpet of the floor digs into your knees as you kneel beside the bed, taking his outstretched hand and holding on tight, watching his chest tremble with gasping breath as he seems to get his bearings back. Like he had forgotten where he is, that he’s safe.

“Hey,” you say, trying to keep your voice from trembling, “I’m here.”

“You shouldn’t be,” he mutters frantically, eyes shifting back and forth, “how did they find you?”

“How did- oh. um,” you use your other hand to pet his hair, “I think you’re confused.”

“Too dangerous,” he tries to shake his head, barely only managing to move a hair’s width, “too dangerous, we can’t be caught together.”

“Caught by who?” You try, figuring you might as well wheedle as much as you can out of him while he’s delirious, “who should I look out for?”

“The Lord,” he whispers, “the one of darkness and blight. Did he bring you here? To torment me?” Before you can answer, he continues. “It doesn’t matter, none of it matters.”

“Who is the Lord?”

“The less you know, the better. Tell them I will confess for your release.”

“Merikh,” you try to keep your voice gentle and calm, “we’re not in danger. We’re home- in my home, you’re safe.”

“Tell them,” he repeats, his grip on your hand tightening, “tell them for me.”

“Look at me,” you say, placing your other hand on his face, trying to ground him back in reality, “babe, you’re dreaming. We’re both… fine.” The last word comes out a little unconvincing, mostly because you wouldn’t accurately describe the state he’s in as _fine._ “You’re here with me, on earth, or the seventh realm or whatever you call this place. Not there.”

His breath shudders, eyes turning downcast to the bedsheets. “You can’t be here,” he says again, miserably, “you can’t be here.”

Delirium, you realize, spending the rest of the morning at his feverish and shaking side. Giving him gentle reassurances that he’s safe, that you’re safe, and that no one is going to find where the two of you are. Stashed away on earth, us how you said it, hidden by spells and runes that make his presence no more visible than an average human male’s. He doesn’t seem to hear you, though, or at least doesn’t understand that you aren’t making any false promises.

He falls asleep, grip on your hand only loosening slightly as his conscious ebbs and flows. His sleep is restless, his voice softly crying out gibberish ever so often, but you stay and manage to soothe his nightmares, brushing the hair from his eyes, whispering words of positivity and encouragement in the hopes he will wake. It takes you a little while to gather the mental fortitude to untangle your fingers from his, but you steel yourself and do it quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. You stand over him for a moment, guilt flooding your chest as a soft whimper escapes his throat.

After a moment, letting out a little sigh, you crawl onto the other side of the bed, laying up against his limp body. You don’t dare hold him, though, afraid that any extra movement might reopen his wounds, but you retake his hand, holding onto it for dear life. After laying there, you must have also fallen asleep, because you wake up, a comfortable weight draped across your chest. It’s his arm, you discover, twisting your head around to see him awake.

“Hey,” you say, clearing your throat. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” The weight of his arm shifts as he reaches for your face, fingers following the path of your jawline. “You saved me.”

“Nah,” you try not to comprehend the warmth running through your veins at his touch, “I just patched you up. Nothing serious.”

“Mm, I disagree.” His thumb comes to rest on your lower lip. “I should thank you.”

You sit up, sliding off the mattress as quick as a gunshot. “Getting better will be thanks enough, I think. You need to rest up for that, though, so stay there while I get the supplies to change your bandages.”

“Wait.”

You pause, turning back around, stomach twisting in knots.

Merikh rises slightly from his position, face twisting if he moves in the wrong way, and then stops once facing you. “This- I mean, these injuries… you know they will heal faster if…”

You offer a sharp nod, swallowing thickly.

“And you don’t have to if you don’t want to, they’ll heal up eventually… but I thought that the option should be there.”

“You’d be fine with it, Merikh? If we had sex?” You can barely keep the contempt out of your voice when you speak, and you aren’t even certain why you’re so riled up about it, anyway. Is it because sleeping with him is a taste of what you can never have? Just the thought of _needing_ him brings bile to your throat.

“Should I not be?” He asks, hands shifting in his lap.

“I don’t know what kind of relationship you have- or had, with whoever put you on the receiving end of that beating, but would they be alright with you sleeping around?” You place a steadying hand on your desk.

Merikh looks up at you, silent. Almost aghast, but without the horror, like he expected you to bring it up sometime, he just didn’t know when.

“And- and while you and whoever that person you love might be alright with it, I’m not. I’m not going to be that other person in the relationship.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, you’re not sure if he’s holding back a grimace or smile.

“So…” you offer a shrug, “I don’t think I want to.”

“So I told you, then,” he says quietly, “about… this.”

“That this was some sort of punishment,” you say vaguely, in the hopes he might reveal more, “and that you love someone.”

“Yes, I love someone.”

“Do they love you back?” You ask.

“I don’t know.” He sounds almost miserable, eyes downcast. “I hope they do, in their own, quiet way, but every-” he lets out a shuddering breath, “every time we see each other, they act like they hate me.”

Becoming a couple’s therapist for the Cubi was not on your agenda for the day, but you sit down on the side of the bed, hands pressed flat on the blanket. “Have you told them? That you love them, I mean.”

“I’ve said it,” his voice is quiet, you have to lean in to hear clearly, “a few times, but… they don’t react well. I don’t think they believe me.”

“Huh,” you say softly, trying not to think about how he had been sobbing words of adoration to you just months before. “Could the reason for that be that you say it to other people when you don’t mean it?”

“No,” he shakes his head, almost limp with defeat, “I’ve never said it to anyone else.”

“Merikh,” you push, trying to remain gentle despite the lie, “you’ve said those things to me.”

“Yes,” he says, voice defeated.

“So you’ve said it to someone else before.”

“No.” He takes a shuddering breath, his eyes becoming misty with tears. “I haven’t said it to anyone else.”

You look at him, because he’s not saying what you think he’s saying. He’s not… he’s not telling you anything more than what you want to hear, he’s only trying to use you for-

“Please listen,” he takes your hand before you can process that you’ve already stood up to leave, “you need to- I’m sorry, I won’t ever say it again, don’t leave me alone, please.”

You don’t leave, but you don’t look at him, either, because you feel the base of your nose pinch as your eyes well up with tears, and you don’t want him to see you crying. He can’t see any signs of weakness.

“I’ll say it once more because I must; I love you.”

You wince.

“I do,” he continues softly, “I really do. I know you don’t believe me and I don’t blame you for it, but if there were a way I could prove it, I would. Please,” he lifts your knuckles to your mouth and gives you a kiss, and repeats, “please.”

If it’s too good to be true, it must be. The lovesick romantic in you wants to fly into his arms and let him embrace your aching soul for the end of time, but you don’t turn around. Not until you get a hold of yourself, anyways, taking in a deep, shaking breath and making sure you aren’t going to start sobbing like a heartbroken puppy.

“If you do anything- if I learn of anything or hear of anything,” you say, trying to keep a stern face when you’re about to have a full emotional breakdown, “I’ll- I don’t know, find out how to kill you. Or skin you alive.”

He smiles, then, the edges of his mouth turning up at your threat, though not mocking, more in the way of accepting your threat as the sweet promise of a lover. So, on a whim, you bend over and give him a kiss in return, pressing your lips against his for a soft, tender moment. Then you let yourself drown as he snakes his hand around the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss. It’s like an exchange of electricity, you can feel the energy as it moves out from your skin onto his where the two of you touch.

“Wait-” you stop as he tries guiding you to the bed, “you’re going to reopen your wounds.”

“There won’t be any wounds to reopen if we continue,” he says, hands at your waist, “at least, not if we go at it a couple of times.”

“Okay, but won’t it hurt, though? And get blood everywhere?” You don’t even realize that you’re making excuses until the last one comes out.

He pauses, looking over at the bed, then a look of understanding dawns on his face. “It’s this bed, isn’t it? This is where we first-”

“Stop.”

“You’re embarrassed.”

“No,” you lie, “I’m not.”

“You were cute. Still are.”

“Lay down,” you say, pushing against his chest to get him off your back, so to speak. “We’ll do this gently, I don’t want you bleeding to death on me.”

“No, no, no.” He shakes his finger at you and then winces, “you can’t distract me with sex, that’s my job. Come here.”

You straddle him, which isn’t the approach he meant, you are certain, but he takes it in stride.

“You might have been naive,” he says, “and childish, even, and your only goal, from what I could gather, was some sort of revenge scheme that didn’t even get-”

“Alright, I get it.”

He gives you a peck on the mouth. “Look at us now, at how far we’ve come, love.”

Your spine tingles when he calls you that, though some part of you still winces. _He still could be lying,_ the survivor in you whispers, _all you have is his word. His word against thousands of others. Don’t do this to yourself._

“Hey, look at me.” He runs his hands around to your back, pulling you closer. “I know that we’ve had a difficult start, but trust me, please.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, taking a deep breath, and look him in the eye.

“I love you.” His voice is calm, firm, like there is no other possible statement in the universe.

It doesn’t hurt as bad to hear it this time, but you don’t actually take it to heart. It still bounces off the walls you’ve built.

As if hearing your thoughts, he arches his eyebrows. “I will say it as many times as you need it. I. Love. You.”

“Okay.”

He kisses your mouth. “I love you.”


End file.
